


Hunted like an Animal

by SofiaDragon



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Cannibalism (Mentioned), Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Internalized racism, Louisiana Voodoo vibe, Lynching, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Alastor's Death (Hazbin Hotel), The Klan (yes that one)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofiaDragon/pseuds/SofiaDragon
Summary: Alastor died in the deep south in 1933.This is how it happened. Hunted like an animal, panting from exhaustion, and laying in the dirt.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Hunted like an Animal

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any sensitivity at all to racism or _internalized_ racism **turn back now**. I'm not being cautious with the tags. You have been warned. This is the darkest thing I have ever written. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat!

Alastor ran for his life. The blind panic was receding, rational thought coming back with each step he took away from the old oak tree with its strange fruit swinging in the evening air. The underbrush snagged on the fancy suit he'd worn to the club and his fine shoes slid on the fallen leaves, but he had no time to shed anything. Losing the jacket would only give them proof of what direction he was running anyway. He knew these woods, he had hunted here since he was a boy with his Pa, back when the only meat he brought home to butcher was venison.

Dogs barked behind him, one excited enough to howl, and he pushed himself to run faster. He was a dead man for a stupid reason and a damned man for what nobody ever suspected. He almost wished they had caught him at it, either the voodoo or the cannibalism might have scared them enough to make them sloppy. Both and he might even have had the chance to feed them to his friends on the other side with nobody else the wiser. As it was, he'd stolen a good ten minutes of extra life by taking advantage of the distraction made by a feisty young lady. He probably deserved to go to hell just for that; she might have gotten away if he'd helped her. Then again she'd been part of the bait, the poor dear believing that they'd spare her boys if she helped those rotten bastards get the jump on Alastor. Cowards, the lot of them; eight on one was unfair enough without dragging a woman into the fight. They'd tossed him in the back of their truck like a sack of beans, screaming their nonsense loud enough to have curtains twitching all down the street as they sped off. The sound she made when she saw her sons already strung up on that old oak… Alastor was a damned monster but he'd never made anyone make a sound like that, let alone someone like that gentle mother with her whispered apologies as she shook in terror the whole way out into the forest.

_"I swear, Alastor, if I knew it was you I wouldn'a done it. I'd 'a called for help somehow, screamed your name, somebody would'a come runnin. They out their mind, but… they have my boys and a gun on me besides. Wit their daddy dead I didn't have any choice, ain't nobody care to help me when they came by. God, everybody knows you, your not… Lord help us, they out their minds!"_

He caught a peek of the moon through the half-fallen leaves, telling him which way was west. There was a creek nearby. He'd need to angle south a little to catch it. If he was fast and lucky enough he might bring himself back from the hell he was in. Branches snagged at his russet hair, twigs breaking off and sticking in the thick layer of waxy product that kept it laying straight. Scratches pulled at his tan skin. It was light enough - _by all that was holy and unholy wasn't he light enough?_ \- to see easily when the moon peeked through the clouds, but it was going to rain later tonight for certain. It had been a while since the last rain, but the creek might have enough current to take his bowtie downstream. Soaked with his sweat and scent from a night of dancing and good music turned to running for his life, it might lead the dogs away. It was shallow enough even when swollen to its limit for him to run up the bed where his footprints can't be seen for a good distance. It might be enough to lose them.

If he can make it with enough distance between him and his pursuers that the sound of him splashing his way along doesn't give it away. If the dogs aren't as well trained as they might be. If the sheet wearing wastes of meat chasing him aren't smart enough to split up. If he doesn't step in some critter's hole and twist his ankle. If a full day of running errands, half a night of dancing, and one glass of fine liquor doesn't catch him up and leave him wheezing with exhaustion before he can get to his own hunting blind, with the tools and traps he kept hidden there.

If he could turn the hunters into the hunted. 

Wouldn't that be grand? He'd feast for a month, plenty enough to barter the excess 'pork' with those going through hard times. They would thank him kindly for accepting a future favor or whatever greens they had grown in their back garden. With eight sinner's hearts as fine tradable goods to back his dealings with the other side, he might not even have to skip town and start over. It wasn't like they'd run from him. Once one fell, their blind rage and hatred would ensure they all did. A little shadow magic fed by freshly spilled life-blood, that was all he'd need.

He loved his job with the radio and would hate to leave it. Listening to the woes of those who called in between playing the best music on the airways was a great way to put meat on the table: his callers were happy to tell him about sinners just as damned as he was who wouldn't be missed. Or at least wouldn't be missed too much. He never broadcast real names of course, the anonymity is what let people feel safe to talk to him on-air, but while the music played he'd get the names and parish down so he could offer more specific advice or even a phone number to keep an ear out about making a deal. Herbs to set out while you pray for better days and information about where one might barter for the things they need using the things they had on hand when money was short. Places in the area one might go to for help or work. One evening he'd tell a man about a barren divorcee in the next parish who had always wanted children since he now had four and no unfaithful wife to look after them. On another, he'd steer a widow toward a sewing circle of spinsters that never wanted a man's attention in the first place, since she didn't seem terribly inclined toward men herself after her abusive husband disappeared.

Alastor was a dealmaker, and they all owed him a debt of thanks for easing their troubles, but those herbs really do help with bringing a blessing. They burn incense in church after all, but it can be expensive to buy it ready-made and the recipe he gives out isn't all that hard. A good strong scent to help him find his prey. His own hound was trained well enough to track it for miles. Abusive husbands, cheating wives, drunkards, people who gambled away their family's grocery money… all fine meat for his table, bones for his hound, and souls for his associates down below.

The creek was all but dry, the water trickling sluggishly around the fallen leaves and sticks that clogged it. He ran upstream but didn't dare try the trick with his bowtie. It would just sit on the bank and broadcast his location. At least the wind was with him. The cold water splashing up his pant legs helped counter the heat of running flat out in a fine wool three-piece. He counted thirty-five strides through the water before leaping up onto the other bank, hoping that between the height of the bank and the gnarled tree roots that kept it raised he wouldn't leave any obvious footprints. 

How many had he killed? He didn't know. Was that better or worse? Should he remember them so clearly he knew the count without stopping and doing the math, or would that be prideful? He was already damned for gluttony and wrath, he was sure of that. Been told so by the sort who would know, even.

His meticulous appearance wasn't pride, it was survival. For a mixed boy with a dark-skinned Mama to pass as a white man took a lot of work. Of course, he had to move away and take care of how often he visited, but she listened to his broadcasts and the letters she sent were steady. Beeswax-straightened hair, cultured voice, proper suits, powdered face, fine gloves, and a confident gait - all so he could go to a cinema without a torn up screen or walk about any neighborhood he pleased at night without being arrested. The radio station's owners didn't pay the colored DJs half what he earned and didn't let them take calls - just read the ad copy like a script and play the approved music like a good monkey. One of these days he'll make a nice roast out of that racist sack of lard, but not until he'd saved enough to buy the station from the widow. Alastor already had a couple of favors she owed him in his ledger, she wouldn't refuse his offer when he called them due.

Alastor couldn't hear anything past the sound of his heart pounding and the rushing static of his own blood in his ears. He was getting close now, so very close, and he dropped his bowtie with a few gasping words that weren't in any human language. He'd make it to the hunting blind, shoot at least two of them before any of the others got close, and call on the shadows to help take down the rest. He'd let the spirits consume the whole oak tree, too, with a spark of fire. Those mixed boys the bigots had left swinging and their poor mother so like his own, he'd heard the gunshot that could only have been for her, they could help fuel the hellfire that would take out the cowards that wouldn't even chase him down like a wounded deer. He wouldn't get the meat from them if he let the fire take them, but who needed that much meat these days? 

He shucked off his jacket in the middle of a clearing, great leaping strides eating up the ground between him and the safest place in the forest.

The rifle was right where he left it, secure in a watertight box with plenty enough ammunition. His chest heaved with each panting breath as he loaded it, legs burning as he settled down into his blind to await the coming onslaught. He'd made good time, or maybe they had to stop when their stupid hoods and robes got caught in the brambles that tore up Alastor's favorite suit. He'd have blisters for certain if he lived through this, his dancing shoes were decidedly not suited for purpose. Any moment now a Klansman or his dog would come into the clearing, chasing his scent and stopping to contemplate his jacket. He took the blood dripping from where the brambles slashed through his skin and traced some symbols. Eldritch power to ensure he didn't miss and to twist the shadows to keep the bastards chasing him off balance and easy prey. Alastor put all his focus into casting the spells and keeping watch on the clearing. The torches those pigs lit to see their work by would do well enough to start things off, they all but stank with the foulness they'd soaked up from years of use at lynchings and marches through town terrorizing good people. It wasn't even difficult to cast the spell to make them sputter and spit burning oil into the fresh fallen leaves. 

The coming rain would stop the fire from spreading too far, perhaps, but in the meantime, there were sinners that needed to burn. He saw the smoke rise up as the old oak blazed, catching unnaturally fast as he smashed a tiny bottle of substances no decent person would know about to trigger long-dormant spells he'd laid to protect himself if anyone ever tried to string him up in that tree. He'd stopped carrying it when he'd established himself enough to be certain that nobody would find him out as mixed. 

If they didn't show up soon he'd have to go hunt them down, which he generally didn't like to do. Best to have them come to him wherever he laid in wait, but the McKenzie boys would be dead before morning. They would have to be or he'd never be able to pass again. It was just good luck they decided to be selfish and have a nice quiet lynching of a bunch of mixed-race boys and brag about it in the morning instead of spreading it all around town first and risk someone beating them to the punch. They'd moved to Texas over a decade ago! What business did they have coming back to Louisiana? How had they recognized him? He'd changed his last name to be more memorable and thematic - a stage name, but he used it in daily life too because it kept things simple - and he'd been a lanky mud-covered mess working two jobs to pay for getting his qualifications in order when they'd last been around.

A growl sent a shiver up Alastor's spine. He didn't even have time to turn and see what had gone wrong before the dogs ripped out his throat.


End file.
